


Winter's Beauty On His Skin

by motionalocean



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Snowed In, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motionalocean/pseuds/motionalocean
Summary: Trapped in a winter storm, Eames takes the opportunity to lay Arthur out before the fire and savor him.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41
Collections: Eames' Stupid Cupid 2021





	Winter's Beauty On His Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pseudofoucault333](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudofoucault333/gifts).



> Thanks for the lovely prompt, I hope I did it justice! We had a cold snap as I was writing it, so I went for a snowed-in feel as well. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warning for a brief mention of needles and blood in relation to tattoos.

The snow was coming down much stronger the second time Eames went out for firewood. He stopped on the porch for a moment, looking out at the obscured landscape before flipping his hood up and stepping out into it. There wasn’t much to see. This side of the cabin was forested, the firs so tall that Eames couldn’t see their tops through the whirling snow. It all faded to a grey-white in the late afternoon light, the green completely hidden beneath mounds of powder.

He could still make out the shed, though, a dark rectangle across the yard. His footprints from several hours before were all but gone, though, and Eames shuffled his feet through the deep snow in hopes that maybe it would serve in lieu of shoveling, at least until morning. He kicked too aggressively into the powder and cursed as some of it overtopped and slid down his boot. For all the aesthetic appeal of a winter cabin, the details left something to be desired. Still, it was a simple enough trek, and it wasn’t long until he was back on the porch with an armful of split firewood. He shook off as much of the snow as he could, then wrenched the door open. A gust of wind propelled him through along with a flurry of snow, and he hurried to close the door after himself.

Arthur was hunched over his laptop where Eames had left him, bundled in a sweater and feet shoved into thick wool socks. Eames couldn’t help but smile at the sight as he dropped the logs on the already sizeable pile of firewood by the door.

“That should probably do it,” he said. He hung his gloves and coat to dry, and sat on the handily-placed bench to pull off his boots. Ignoring the snow that dusted his trousers, he crossed to Arthur and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“What?” Arthur startled. He sat up, rolling his neck with a grunt. “Shit, what time is it?”

Eames lay his hands over Arthur’s shoulders and dug into the tense muscles there. “Ten to five. I just got more firewood. Hopefully that’ll be enough ‘til morning.”

“Is it still coming down?”

“Heavier than this afternoon. It’s looking to be quite the storm.”

Arthur moaned as Eames found a particularly tense muscle. “Good thing we don’t have anywhere else to be, then.”

Eames hummed, his hands lingering in a way that wasn’t purely therapeutic. The sounds Arthur was making were doing things to him. It wasn’t often the two of them got time away from jobs and cities at the same time. This trip had been almost a year in the making, what with coordinating schedules and security measures and a last-minute job extension on Arthur’s part. Not that they hadn’t seen each other in that time. But a few days here and there, layovers between jobs, didn’t have the same feel as dedicated time away. Eames had access to the cabin all month, had been there for three days now. Arthur had driven through the night to arrive before the snow that morning, and wasn’t booked for another job for several weeks. Eames had to keep reminding himself of that – they had time. If Eames had had his way, they would have tumbled into bed this morning and never left, but apparently getting snowed in required preparation. He’d been doing minor chores around the cabin all day while Arthur napped and then finalized the report for his last job. It had been a struggle to let him work without interruption.

“How’s it coming?” he asked.

Arthur made a noise that could have been disgruntlement or muscle pain. “Maybe another half hour? I’m sorry, I really want to pay attention to you; I just don’t want this hanging over me.”

“Don’t worry about it, darling.” Eames placed another kiss on Arthur’s curls and made himself pull away. “We have plenty of time. I’ll make you some more tea, maybe get dinner started.”

It sounded terribly domestic, but in reality Eames simply refilled the kettle and put it back on the wood stove, then dumped some pre-made frozen stew into a cast iron pot and did the same with it. Arthur had brought more fresh veggies, but they’d last for a while. Cozy and hearty sounded just right for tonight. He buttered a loaf for garlic bread and placed that on the stove as well. He added another log to the fire for good measure.

He had just settled onto the sofa with a novel – something delightfully trashy, the kind Arthur rolled his eyes at in public and then asked Eames to narrate the naughty bits of in private – when his reading lamp and the light over the table both flickered and went out. They were left with the warm glow from the stove’s door and the harsh blue light of Arthur’s laptop. The windows provided no light, the sun having since gone down or been obstructed by the storm.

“Shit,” Arthur said. “I guess that’s it for the internet as well, isn’t it.”

“Afraid so.”

“Well.” Arthur glared at the computer, then sighed, clicked a few times, and closed the lid. “At least it’s done. I would have liked to send it tonight, though.” He turned in his chair and blinked, probably adjusting his eyes to the darkness. “Are there flashlights?”

Eames levered himself off the couch and stumbled towards the kitchen. “I think so. Bollocks. You couldn’t have left your screen on?” He misjudged a step and jammed a toe, but made it to the doorway. He felt for a drawer and pulled it open, peering at its contents. “Aha!”

“Found some?”

“Even better! Either my uncle keeps dildos in his kitchen drawers, or candles.”

Arthur choked on a laugh. “He probably wouldn’t thank you for lighting the former on fire.”

“Would serve him right, storing them in the kitchen.”

Eames grabbed two pillar candles and a lighter and carefully made his way back out to the dining table. Arthur had cleared his laptop and charger to a side table. With a few clicks of the lighter, the room lit in a flickering glow.

They ate dinner by candlelight. Arthur opened a bottle of wine and they played footsie and caught up with each other’s lives. Eames told Arthur about a painting he had just finished on commission – _Yes, Arthur, legitimate income_ – while Arthur lamented a job from earlier that year, which involved wrangling a herd of newcomers to dreamshare around a clusterfuck of an extraction.

“I miss the old days sometimes,” Arthur said. “Everything was by the seat of our pants but at least you knew who was who. Now there’s just too many people to keep track of. And none of them know anything.”

“You’re a big name, darling. Everyone wants to work with the best.”

“Well maybe I also want to work with the best, you ever think of that?” Arthur asked, a little petulantly.

Eames smirked. “You only have to ask, love.”

“We can’t become a package deal,” Arthur told him, not for the first time. “If people know who we are to each other, it’s too much of a risk.”

“I know.” It was an old argument, and with the light catching off Arthur’s eyes, the way they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, Eames really didn’t want to rehash it again. “No more shop-talk, yeah? Not when I’ve got you all alone, finally.”

Arthur downed his wine and slid his foot up Eames’ calf to his thigh. “Oh? And what do you plan to do with me, now that you’ve got me all alone?”

Eames’ smirk grew and he pushed back from the table.

They cleaned up briefly, leaving dishes in the sink for later. There were several jugs of drinking water in the pantry, but the taps came from the well, which needed power. If it wasn’t back on by morning, they could run the generator.

The main room was kept warm by the oven, but the bedrooms were getting colder by the hour. Arthur considered the lay of the living room, then pushed the sofa back and stripped the blankets off both the beds. Eames found more bedding in a closet. Together, they spread out a foam mattress topper and enough duvets to create a nest on the floor.

Then Eames corralled Arthur in his arms and brought him in for a kiss. Arthur sighed into it, tension leaving his body in a rush. Eames ran his hands up his back, down his arms, around to his arse.

“Let me take care of you, darling?”

“You’ve been doing that all day.”

“Hmm, you can get me back tomorrow, shovel the yard.” He nuzzled his face below Arthur’s chin. Their stubble caught against each other’s, and Eames delighted in the feel. “Fix that leak in the bathroom. How are you with a hammer?”

“I’ll hammer you – _oh!_ ”

Eames held tight as Arthur’s legs wobbled when he found that spot on his neck. He eased them both down onto their makeshift bed and suddenly, amongst duvets and blankets and pillows, there were far too many layers between them.

He sat back to pull off his own sweater and t-shirt. Arthur watched from his nest of bedding, legs splayed to either side of Eames. His eyes were warm and hungry.

Feeling the heat of the fire on one side and the chill of the room on the other, Eames leaned down to nuzzle at Arthur’s belly. He pushed up the sweater, and when his fingers met more cloth he tugged Arthur’s shirt out from where it was tucked into his trousers. There, finally, was a strip of soft warm skin. He kissed at it, licked and nibbled and rubbed his stubble over it as Arthur squirmed.

“Eames, Eames… _Eames!_ ”

Hands in his hair eventually pulled Eames’ head up. Arthur’s face was flushed and he was breathing hard.

“Fuck I’ve missed you. Get up here.”

Eames crawled up his body obligingly, leaning down to capture Arthur’s mouth in a searing, biting kiss. Arthur’s hands roamed all over his torso, sending off sparks of sensation. Eames rutted down and they both moaned at the pressure.

“Want to see you,” Eames said. He worked Arthur’s sweater up from the hem, bunching it under Arthur’s armpits until Arthur released him and allowed his hands and the sweater to be drawn up over his head. Eames leaned down for another kiss when Arthur’s face reappeared, leaving his hands tangled temporarily in the sleeves. Arthur made short work of them, leaving the sweater crumpled on the floor away from the fire.

Underneath he was wearing a button-up, too fitted to remove in the same way. Arthur’s hands went to the buttons, but Eames pushed them aside and into the mattress on either side of his shoulders. Arthur smirked, and pushed back against the hold.

“Are you going to stay put for me?” Eames asked.

“What’s the magic word?” Arthur replied, still putting up a token resistance. His knees came up on either side of Eames, his feet pinning Eames’ calves. If he truly wanted, he’d be able to flip them easily, and they both knew it.

Making sure to rub his hips against Arthur’s groin, Eames leaned down again so his face was next to Arthur’s ear. “ _Please_ ,” he whispered with a hint of a growl. A shiver rippled down the full length of Arthur’s body and he sank further into the mattress. He’d probably deny the whimper that came out of his throat, but Eames rewarded him with a kiss anyway.

He let go of Arthur’s wrists, which made no sign of moving, and smoothed his hands down Arthur’s front. He undid the buttons from the bottom, slowly revealing more and more of Arthur’s toned belly and chest. When the final button came undone, he pushed it all the way open.

Arthur’s skin was pale, but hardly untouched. Eames traced the curl of black ink up from his hip, caressed the words across his ribs, splayed a hand across the burst of color on his pectoral. He tweaked a nipple, just because he could, but Arthur didn’t move except to cat up into his touches.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Eames said, stroking over the exposed skin. There was new ink pouring over Arthur’s shoulder, and Eames leaned up to see it in the unsteady light of the fire and candles. He thought that maybe it was the tentacle of an octopus, reaching around from its new home on Arthur’s back. He pushed at the shirt, but it caught on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Off, off. C’mon, love, too many clothes.”

Arthur finally moved, squirming away from Eames so he could sit up and free his arms. “I’m not the only one,” he said, tossing the shirt aside and getting to work on his trousers.

Eames wanted to object, wanted to peel Arthur out of those, too, lick his way down the ink on his hip and detour to his cock and swallow it down, but his own trousers were feeling a bit tight and he took the opportunity to pull them off, and his socks and pants as well.

When he looked back up, Arthur was just as bare. They were both on their knees, and this time it was Arthur who moved forward, crowding them together, running his hands over shoulders and neck and into Eames’ hair, guiding him into a deep kiss. Eames’s hands found Arthur’s arse like it was home and held on, pulling Arthur’s hips to him. Their cocks rubbed up against each other and they both moaned.

“Fuck,” Arthur said. He reached between them to adjust the angle, and Eames couldn’t help but grab tighter as Arthur’s hand – his lovely, dexterous, strong and dangerous hand – brushed over his cock. It was just knuckles at first, almost accidental, but then with more intention. He stroked himself first, then tried to grasp both of them together. It was dry, but the friction was still good and Eames pressed into it.

They rutted against each other for a while, their mouths exploring. Arthur used the hand in Eames’ hair to direct him to his jawline, and Eames nibbled it before sucking a bruise into his neck. Arthur gasped, his grip on Eames’ hair tightening while the hand between them pulled away to steady himself on Eames’ arm.

Eventually Eames pulled back, breathing heavily.

“I want to see,” he said, running a hand up and over Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur turned with the pressure until his back was towards Eames. The light was all wrong though, his back shadowed, so Eames pushed him forward. Arthur bent until he was on hands and knees, the light of the fire spilling out across his back. Before Eames could appreciate it, however, Arthur was reaching to the side. He rummaged around in a bag that he’d placed next to the bedding earlier, and tossed a bottle of lube in Eames’ direction.

“While you’re back there…” he offered, and settled on his front. He wiggled his hips a bit as if Eames had missed the suggestion.

Eames fumbled the catch, his eyes fixed to Arthur’s back. The new ink swirled and cascaded over Arthur’s shoulder blade, twining with older, more faded tattoos. He felt a burst of jealousy that someone else’s hands had been on that skin, had pierced it and pushed ink beneath it and wiped away the blood. It wasn’t a new feeling, but every time it got stronger. He wondered, sometimes, whether it was too late to learn how to tattoo.

“Fuck. You’re so fit, fuck.” Eames found the lube again with a quick brush of the sheets. He slicked himself quickly, relishing the glide of his own hand over his cock as he watched the play of light over Arthur’s back. After a few strokes, he hooked his hands under Arthur’s hips and pulled them up. Arthur arched his back, slotting Eames’ dick right into the crack of his arse. They both moaned. Arthur tilted his hips, letting Eames rut against him. They fell into a rhythm, with the fire and candlelight playing across the curve of Arthur’s skin, blending ink and shadow such that the tattoos appeared to dance. Eames lost himself in it, feeling the slick slide of Arthur’s ass. He kept talking, extolling Arthur’s beauty, the way his arse felt, how his tattoos looked like home.

“Oh I see how it is.” Arthur huffed a laugh after a particularly hard thrust. “You don’t give a shit about my face, you just want to jack off on my tattoos.”

Eames could admit it, he’d love to add his mark to Arthur’s skin, rub it in, see how it blended with the pale of Arthur’s flesh and the shapes of his tattoos. He wanted to leave something for all to see. Something for Arthur to boast about, and remember him by when work or sheer hardheadedness kept them apart. But the tattoos weren’t the point, the point was that the tattoos were on _Arthur_ , and it was Arthur who made them magnificent.

So Eames stopped thrusting, with a sound that came out a little more mournful than he meant it to be. Arthur bucked his hips back, searching.

“What? Fuck, no, it was hot, you can keep going.”

Eames smoothed a hand down Arthur’s crack, accumulating lube and rubbing it around his hole. “Turn over”

Arthur keened, his hole fluttering under the pressure. His hips jerked a little, and Eames soothed a hand over the mound of one cheek.

“Turn over,” he repeated, and pulled his hands away. Arthur scrambled to obey, landing on his back with his knees up and wide. His dick was hard and flushed in the light of the fire, and bobbed with every flex of Arthur’s abs. When Eames just knelt and looked for too long, he squirmed.

“Touch me, Eames.”

“I’m appreciating your face,” Eames said with a smirk, but reached his hand back to press against Arthur’s hole again, just rubbing small circles. Arthur whined.

“Appreciate it closer, come here.”

Eames bent down to kiss him just as he pressed in with one finger. He caught Arthur’s moan in his mouth, then nipped at his lips while Arthur panted against him.

“You feel so good,” he said, beckoning gently. Arthur bucked against him and Eames moved with him, not letting up. “Fuck, Arthur, I’ve missed this. I miss you all the time, bloody hell.”

“Eames!” Arthur moaned. “Oh my god, I love you too but I need you to touch my dick now, please.”

Eames bit at his collarbone as he pushed in with another finger. The noise Arthur made shot straight through him. He kissed his way down Arthur’s torso, then found the tip of Arthur’s cock.

He meant to draw it out. He wanted to lick until Arthur was mad with it, suck on his sac, maybe tease him a little. But Arthur’s hands fisted in his hair the moment he got his mouth around the tip, and so he figured he’d leave the fancy shit for another day. He got his other hand around the base of Arthur’s cock to control the depth, then stroked Arthur inside and let him fuck up into his mouth in response. His fingers fucked Arthur’s ass and Arthur fucked his face, and every filthy noise that came out of Arthur’s mouth and every sharp tug against his scalp went straight to his own cock, hanging heavy and dripping between his legs. He moaned around Arthur, hollowed his cheeks and felt with his tongue for that spot just under the head. Spit ran down from his mouth, smoothing the way for his hand to pump the base where his lips couldn’t reach.

It wasn’t long before Arthur was tugging on his hair in earnest, a litany of _fuck_ and _Eames_ tumbling from his mouth. Eames pushed up hard with his fingers and could feel Arthur clench around him, hard at first and then in waves. He sucked and stroked Arthur through his orgasm, swallowing what he could and letting the rest spill.

Arthur’s hands eventually relaxed in his hair, and Eames took the cue to pull off with one last lick to the head of Arthur’s cock to make him twitch. He slipped his fingers out carefully, but Arthur still whimpered a bit with overstimulation.

Eames crawled up and sprawled next to him on his side. Arthur curled into him and met his mouth with a clash of teeth. It took them a moment to sort the angle out, Arthur too blissed out and Eames too keyed up. Eventually they lined up and the kiss went from awkward to hot and desperate again. Arthur slipped a knee between Eames’ thighs and reached down to grasp his cock, still slick with lube. Eames moaned.

Arthur started jerking him off with purpose, his grip steady and just the right pressure. He talked through it, voice gravelly after his orgasm. The words flowed through Eames, lighting him up from the inside. Praise for how well Eames took care of him, how good he felt, how much Arthur had missed him, that imagining it wasn’t ever as good as the real thing. Eames came with a cry, Arthur’s promise of all the filthy things they’d do over the next weeks ringing in his ears.

They lay panting into each other’s mouths for a long while, breathing the same air and occasionally bridging the distance for a proper kiss. They were both sticky with sweat and lube and come, but without running water, a shower was out of the picture until the morning.

With a last kiss to Arthur’s lips, then his nose, Eames extricated himself. Considering his options, he eventually grabbed his t-shirt from where he’d dropped it earlier and wiped them both clean. Arthur blinked up at him, clearly on the edge of sleep, and rolled over to his stomach when Eames was done. Eames felt exhaustion closing in as well, but made himself toss another log into the fire and blow out the remaining candles before sinking back down onto their makeshift bed.

He cuddled up next to Arthur and pulled a blanket over them. Arthur would probably shove him away during the night, overheated, but for now he relished the feel of their bodies next to each other. He traced patterns over Arthur’s back with his fingers idly, then realized he was filling in designs between Arthur’s tattoos. A tentative excitement filled him from the belly up. He pushed the blanket back. In the dim light he could see the negative space, the areas of opportunity, how Eames could fit himself into the artwork that was Arthur himself.

“Arthur,” he murmured, amazed he hadn’t thought of it until now. “Darling, can I design you a tattoo?”

Arthur mumbled in response, nestling closer.

Eames made his hand relax and lie dormant and heavy on Arthur’s skin. He pulled a pillow further under his head and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The fire crackled next to them, the storm continued outside, and Arthur’s back rose and fell steadily under his hand. Tomorrow. He could ask again tomorrow.


End file.
